The Lancers Books 1-3 Omnibus: Lancers

By P R Adams

Bounty hunters, detectives, mercenaries—people with a particular set of skills.

Four people with secrets to keep, each drawn to the fringes of human space. Three tales of mystery and suspense.

A bounty hunter arrives on a mining colony, desperate for work, which she finds. But is she ready for what awaits her deep underground?

A mercenary takes an assignment on a frontier colony world where a small group of religious zealots threaten to undo the fragile balance with the colonial government. Is she there to rescue the man who hired her team, or is there some other game at play?

A private detective on the run finds himself caught up in the machinations of a research firm on the edge of collapse and the criminal underworld. And there's more—a hidden threat that could undo everything the detective has worked so hard to accomplish.

Grab this collection today, and launch yourself into the world of the Lancers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Promethean Tales
• Release date: Mar 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393705635

Book preview

The Lancers Books 1-3 Omnibus

THE LANCERS BOOKS 1-3 OMNIBUS

P R ADAMS

PROMETHEAN TALES

CONTENTS

Also by P R Adams

Deep Descent

The Village

Estrella Brillante

Administrator Linscome

Going Down

Arrival on Reitman

Customs

Barrymore

Constable Paris

Shelly Suzuki

The Offer

Meeting the Lancers

Clint

The Inventory

Morning Coffee

Going to Work

Motherlode

Hacking the Constables

Revelations

A Dirt That Won’t Wash Off

Norris Dormitory

Gano

Munn and Unrein

Gano Flees

Aftermath

Blood in the Street

Flight for the Tube Station

Taking a Stand

Breaking the Mob

The Tube Car

Flight from Motherlode

Power Shifts

Plunging Ahead

Panic in the Car

Rescue Operation

Clint and Cops

Motherlode Crisis

No Good Options

Car Repairs

Discoveries

Compromised

The Emergency Door

Trapped

Lifting the Door

One Too Many

Seeking Memories

The Emergency Door

Tough Choices

Synthetic Memories

The Long Crawl

Looking Inside

What Was Lost

Degeneration

Ghost Town

Walking Among the Dead

Confrontation

Death in the Light

Slick Boys

Final Stand

The Rooftop

Crisis of Conscience

The Deal

Saying Goodbye

Deadly Game

The Job

Deseret

Insertion

Pissing Contest

Clearing a Path

Desperate Measures

Time Running Out

Deadly Pursuit

Into the Marina

The Bird Problem

Safe Haven

The Beach Villa

A Late Call

Sightseeing

The Schoolyard

Revelation

Scouting

Testing Capabilities

Rumblings

Planning the Dry Run

Friction

Confrontation

Jared Boyer

Escalation

Under Arrest

Going Rogue

Giving Chase

Boiling Over

Fallout

Rendezvous

Protected Ground

Change of Plans

Splitting Off

Shifting Alliances

The Waking Nightmare

The Adjudicator

Opportunities

Samuel

The Handoff

Hell Breaks Loose

Alternate Plans

Mansion Hit

Joy Ride

Burning Bridges

Coming Undone

Nada

The Beast

Saying Goodbye

The Hunt

Engagement

Rage

Standoff

Hostage Negotiations

Wading In

Stalked

Closing In

Airborne

Spinning Down

A New Order

Facing Fears

Benji

Dire Straits

Apollyon

Newcastle

The Thug

Opportunities

Shéhérazade’s

Rosario Salazar

Unwelcome Visitor

Straightening Things Out

Messy Misunderstanding

Payback

Bartholomeu’s

The Team

Meeting the Principals

Surveillance

The Tip

Gibraltar

Connections

Out of the Cold

Second Thoughts

Revelations

Donnell

Gone Silent

Reset

Puzzle Pieces

Conflict of Interest

The Others

Hard Contact

Proof

Moon

Lunacy

Assault

Let Go

Reassessing Options

The Bounty

Tangled Mess

Dire Straits

Showdown

Don Quixote

Pressure

Consensus

Demands

Deep Dive

Stormy Seas

The Target

Fraying

Breach

Only Human

The Storage Facility

A Little B&E

Escape

Final Choice

Fallout

Closing Accounts

Into the Bay

Pursuit

Confrontation

Moment of Truth

A Little Bit of Decency

Things Happen

The Beginning

Acknowledgments

About the Author

ALSO BY P R ADAMS

For updates on new releases and news on other series, visit my website and sign up for my mailing list at:

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https://www.p-r-adams.com

Books in the On The Brink Universe

The Stefan Mendoza Trilogy

Into Twilight

Gone Dark

End State

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Stefan Mendoza: The Human Deception Trilogy

Split Image

Hard Burn

Null Point

The Rimes Trilogy

Momentary Stasis

Transition of Order

Awakening to Judgment

The ERF Series

Turning Point

Valley of Death

Jungle Dark

Chariot Bright

Dawn Fire

The Lancers Series

Deep Descent

Deadly Game

Dire Straits

Dark Secrets

Desperate Measures

Domino Effect

The Burning Sands Series

Beneath Burning Sands

Across Burning Sands

Beyond Burning Sands

Inside Burning Sands

Over Burning Sands

War for Burning Sands

Through Burning Sands

To Burning Sands

On Burning Sands

The War in Shadow Series

Shadow Moves

Shadow Play

Shadow Strike

Shadow Talk

Shadow Pawn

Shadow Fall

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The Chronicle of the Final Light

Forge of Empire

Sudden Strike

Breakout

Final Treachery (2024)

A Dark Time (2024)

Fatal Blow (2024)

Into the Abyss (2024)

Return of the Light (2025)

Counterattack (2025)

Shadow Gate (2025)

Imminent Fall (2025)

A Light Undimmed (2025)

Infinite Realms

Call of Destiny

The Dark Realm

Warlords of Dust

Mirror of Souls

Dread Empire

Through Infinite Realms

Books in The Chain Series

The Chain: Shattered

The Journey Home

Rock of Salvation

From the Depths

Ever Shining

DEDICATION

For Philip K. Dick, science fiction trailblazer.

DEEP DESCENT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

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DEEP DESCENT

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Copyright © 2018 P R Adams

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All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

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Cover Illustration © Deranged Doctor Design

Different. Book Covers. 

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THE VILLAGE

The troop carrier bounced and rattled down the desert road. Its old, gray tires churned up a yellow dust that hung in its wake. Sergeant Chanda Bajaj tried to meet the eyes of her squad, but all she saw was olive drab helmet top or black whiskers on dark gold cheeks. They were from all over the region, some from the east and some from the south, dark-haired with olive or brown skin. They squeezed the barrels of their assault rifles. Her squad was scared, same as everyone else in the convoy.

And she was, too.

Who wouldn’t be? Awakened well before dawn, assembled on the parade grounds before being marched to the motor pool. Five ancient, T-Corp diesel burners awaited them there, the air heavy with the sharp tang of their exhaust. A sixth, even larger one had bulldozers chained to its flatbed.

What is it, Lieutenant? She’d asked that question of her young platoon commander. A small man, slender. He had to look up at her, face pinched, as much from intimidation at her size as her question.

He didn’t know. His eyes held the same confusion. And fear.

And so she had taken her squad to the designated vehicle and climbed aboard.

They had rumbled out of the base and headed north, sticking to back roads that challenged the coughing, old beasts and tossing the soldiers around on their hard, wooden plank seats.

When the sun came up, it revealed dead earth—cracked, littered with sun-bleached grass stalks. Equally dry riverbeds coated with the skin of long-dead algae and chemical scum.

Toxic dumps, raging temperatures. How close had their world come to dying?

Close. What the corporations hadn’t destroyed, the wars nearly had.

And there were parts that would never recover, radioactive wastelands farther west, shared with what remained of Pakistan. Lost. Unless someone wanted to spend the years of effort and money required. And no one was going to.

Her eyes drifted skyward, to the blue heavens lit by the golden sun.

Who would spend the money to save their home when there were so many other worlds to turn to now?

But she was stuck here, with her squad and her platoon. Her family.

The trucks rattled and squeaked as they came to a sudden stop. Someone shouted for them to get out.

Her squad had live rounds; she was issued a flamethrower. Another squad was tasked to carry red petrol jerrycans. She saw two flamethrowers in the other platoon.

A terrorist camp? Insurgents from Pakistan or China?

No one was going to answer any questions.

They formed into columns and double-timed through rusted gates someone had opened. Warning signs were posted across the dead fields: carcinogens, radiation, poisons.

Buildings took shape ahead—a village. Long abandoned. The simple structures leaned against dusty wind.

Then she realized they weren’t abandoned. Children spilled into the dirt road, curious. Forms moved in the fields, dropping tools, running back to the buildings.

Skin and bones, bodies burned dark by the sun—these were farmers. Desperate and pathetic.

Orders again: Break into squads, gather the occupants, take them to the outskirts of the village.

Chanda swallowed. Why? These weren’t terrorists. They weren’t a threat.

Soldiers surged forward, shouting, cracking heads with rifle butts. Kicking. Screaming. Herding the children and women.

A gun roared, and one of the farmers dropped in his tracks, clutching his chest.

Chanda shivered. She led her squad into a small shack where a young woman huddled, arms wrapped around two small kids.

Sergeant Bajaj? Private Kohli. Freshly graduated from basic infantry training, eyes wide and dancing around. He was locked in place in the door, licking his lips. What are we to do?

The flamethrower was heavy in her hands.

Sergeant Bajaj! The lieutenant leaned in through the opening, locked eyes on the young mother. Gather them. Take them to the others.

A silence settled as the mother locked eyes with Chanda. Pleading eyes.

Gunfire shattered the silence. Not a shot but several rifles firing at once.

Firing squad.

Tears rolled down the children’s cheeks. The mother pulled them closer. No. Please. We’ve done nothing.

The lieutenant pushed past Kohli, grabbed one of the girls. You have your orders!

Please! The mother lunged for her child.

The lieutenant pulled his pistol and shot the woman in the chest, then holstered the weapon, glaring at Chanda. Take them! All of them!

She was barely aware of her squad gathering up the dying woman and the two girls. She was even less aware of following behind, watching people being forced to their knees in front of bloody corpses.

Men. Women. Children.

More gunfire, and another row of villagers jerked backward, some dead, some twitching.

The executions continued.

Her squad tossed the dying woman on top of the growing pile and pushed her girls in front of the soldiers performing the executions. They were young men, sickened by what they were doing. But they were following orders. It’s what they were trained to do.

Blood pooled, dark on the earth. The bodies were piled high. The squad with the jerrycans sloshed petrol on the corpses and the dying. One of the little girls from the hut stared at Chanda from the pile, mouth working, blood spilling out.

Chanda’s knees nearly buckled.

Why? How?

Her lieutenant shoved her. Burn them!

I— She couldn’t. Her fingers were clenched tight, frozen.

They aren’t what you think. Not like us. Burn them.

Chanda couldn’t. She staggered closer to them. The child’s eyes drawing her in. Chanda could make out the words the child couldn’t speak: I don’t want to die.

One of the other soldiers with a flamethrower stepped forward and lit the pile.

The child found her voice, screaming along with the others still alive.

Chanda reached out a hand for the little one and drew it back when the flames rolled wide and washed over her.

She fell to the ground, burning.

Burning with the child. Burning with the dead.

ESTRELLA BRILLANTE

After twenty-eight years, Chanda felt like it was only fair that she could make an observation about the universe. Not a significant observation, just a little head-tilt and hm sort of thing. Still, it was something that had eaten at her for as long as she could remember.

The observation: The universe liked irony. That, or it liked to fuck with people.

Her own situation was a perfect example. Born in the collapsing nation of the United States and raised through her teens in her parents' homeland of India, she had seen a lot of the worst that life had to offer. She dealt with the hard blows and moved on. Normally, she wasn’t one to complain.

She made an exception for the Brillante.

That was the name of the transport she took to Reitman colony: Estrella Brillante. Another passenger said that it meant shining star.

Irony.

And that was fine. She just wanted off Earth, to find a new home, to start over and forget. She wasn't looking for a four-star experience, and that definitely wasn't what she got.

Crewmembers explained that the Brillante was mostly used to transport materials—food, tools, equipment. Passengers headed out to Reitman were a pretty rare thing, especially in the numbers on the current manifest. They took on that sort of embarrassed and defensive manner people got when things weren’t really defensible but were outside their control. So, human cargo was an afterthought for the owners.

It showed.

Most of the time, the ship was smelly, hot, and cramped. At the best of times—like the glorious twice-daily dining hall experience, with meals meant to tease the most sophisticated palate—it was just smelly and hot.

From the shuttle window, as they came up from Earth, the Brillante had seemed relatively impressive. Backlit by stars, long, with three cargo-hauling modules attached to the main, rectangular body. Scuffed and dented, she seemed safe and stable, the sort of vessel that was well-established and thus reliable. Chanda even told herself the ship looked big, something she valued at her size.

Plus, it wasn’t Earth. Already, things were looking up.

Her cabin was a two-by-three-meter slow cooker shared with three other ladies headed for the colony.

Entertainers.

Of course, there were several titles for what they did, but in the end they were pleasure providers. She spent hours crammed into the same space with them, usually lying down on their fold-down beds, them sharing secrets of the trade, horror stories, and drugs, Chanda trying to empathize.

Or sleep.

Whenever possible, she opted for sleep. Anything to escape the foul, earthy mustiness of their organic medications and all the pent-up body heat.

Chanda wasn’t judging them. She didn’t generally judge. Not anymore.

That was a whole other story, something she didn’t want to dwell on.

But, ultimately, it came down to understanding how they’d arrived at the point they had. Understood if not empathized.

There weren’t a whole lot of job opportunities on Earth, so people took what they could get. And it wasn’t like bounty hunting was a more noble endeavor.

Hardly.

But Chanda had nothing in common with the other women. Sex wasn’t something she pursued. She could count on one hand the number of partners she’d had in her life, and the experiences were never fulfilling. Actually, they were never particularly pleasant. She simply had a hard time connecting with people, and without some sort of connection, why have sex?

Unless you were getting paid, she guessed. But then the discussion would be back to job opportunities, and she had those from a fairly early age.

As far back as she could remember, she had been big. Above average. As she grew older, she was closer to male average. And when she was old enough to join the military and had access to more and better food, she fell into intense training. One-hundred eighty-one centimeters, sixty-eight kilos, blessed with broad, powerful shoulders and arms firmed with muscle: she intimidated many of her male counterparts.

Tough.

She wanted to be good at her job. She liked the way she could keep her thick, black hair cut short, just a little longer than a man’s. And in combat gear, no one could pick her out as a female, not until they got up close. Some things she couldn’t hide, and that was fine with her.

Her small nose and full lips, the softer jawline, the smile and the way her eyebrows arched—she liked those. She had no problem being feminine when she was out of uniform and off the job.

Well, not feminine. That had a specific meaning that shouldn’t really be undone.

Womanly.

But being in uniform and on the job was the best. It gave her an identity and let her feel like she had found a home after a lifetime of feeling alone. Being a soldier gave her purpose and structure. That was more than most people had in life.

But being a soldier in the Indian military hadn’t been everything she had hoped it would be. In fact, it eventually became…unbearable.

She eventually separated, which led to becoming a bounty hunter.

And leaving Earth.

Technically, she wasn’t a bounty hunter. That term, along with mercenary, fell out of favor after the Metacorporate War. Her official classification was Lancer, which was short for freelancer. Lancers were licensed to supplement, extend, or even replace the role of law enforcement, paramilitary, and military operations. Licensed as a Class IV, she could fill any of those roles.

So, bounty hunter or mercenary.

Even though the Brillante wasn’t really meant for passengers, it was stuffed full of them. Mostly it was miners, engineers, and other skilled workers seeking jobs. They were often desperate, displaced by automation or a market where their skills had been devalued. One engineer spent an entire meal talking about the impossible math of paying off the student loans for his PhD if he stayed on Earth. Or if he moved to the colonies. Wage depression was hitting those areas, too, just not as quickly as Earth.

It was the same story for everyone. The Frontier Colonies offered risk-takers something Earth and the established colonies didn’t: a chance.

Chanda could have made decent enough money on one of the colonies. She even considered heading down when the ship had stopped off at Roarke, a colony that was as close to being frontier as the established colonies could be. Ultimately, she couldn’t do it. She needed to get away from Earth and her past.

Far away. That meant the real frontier.

That meant the Reitman colony.

ADMINISTRATOR LINSCOME

Getting down to the colony wasn’t a direct hop. The Brillante had a shuttle capable of making the descent, but the way Chanda understood it, every colony was a business, a corporation. That meant that all resources went through a process of tracking and screening. All of that was handled by an orbital station.

After so many weeks of being packed like sardines in the ship, she looked forward to stretching her legs. The orbital station experience was just icing on the cake.

That had to wait, though. Process. Follow the process.

Once the materials had been transported across and the Brillante’s only shuttle reconfigured for human passengers, everyone loaded up.

Chanda was thankful that the flight to the orbital station was only an hour from buckle in to unbuckle, because the shuttle helped her appreciate just how spacious the ship had actually been. Her legs bumped against the legs of the people on either side of her, and her knees were pinned against the seat in front. The air was so thick and foul, she thought she might suffocate. Coughing, sneezing, belching—every disgusting human biological function filled the air.

She pulled her jacket off, but even in light pants and sleeveless T-shirt, the heat was unbearable.

When the pressure doors cycled and the ramp dropped to the hangar deck, she thought she might cry.

The hangar deck was bright, the pale gray walls clean, the navigation markers clear and legible.

And the air. Mercifully breathable.

There were other shuttles—larger and better maintained—parked along one side.

Reitman shuttles.

Between the disembarking passengers and the other shuttles, station crew waited, standing tall in crisp, midnight blue uniforms with black trim, curtly looking from data displays to disembarking passengers. There were nods and the hint of smiles.

It was all so…professional.

The crew seemed a bit pale but otherwise healthy. Rank was visible, and Chanda quickly made out a sense of the hierarchy—black epaulets with gold frill for officers, gold epaulets with black bars for enlisted.

Chanda spotted the person in charge, and her stomach flipped.

The woman was at least five centimeters taller, perhaps six kilos lighter. Her hair was trimmed down to a short black buzz. Her skin was almost caramel, more orange than Chanda’s dark gold. And the woman’s uniform was tight, emphasizing ample hips and breasts. Her brown eyes scanned the people in front of Chanda as they stepped off the ramp.

Then their eyes locked for a second, and the administrator looked over at one of her senior crewmembers—a big black man equally squeezed into his uniform. He took a long step toward Chanda.

She froze.

Chanda Bajaj? The big man posed it as a question, but his dark eyes said he already knew the answer.

Yes.

He sighed, and she got a face full of his breath—clean, a hint of clover and something citrusy. Welcome to Orbital Station One. Administrator Linscome would like to speak with you. He waved a thick hand toward the tall woman.

I’m a Lancer. My weapons—

You just need your chit. He held up the data pad he’d been inspecting for her to see. It showed her credentials and the data from her chit. My crew handles all weapons transfers. Your case will be transferred to storage until our shuttle’s ready to take you down to Francona.

Francona?

The spaceport. He chuckled. Reitman only has the one, same as the orbital station. If you’ll follow me?

He seemed to consider maybe something more intimidating. Chanda had no doubt she could drop him. He was big, and he obviously had some muscle, but he seemed older and stiff, and his uniform would slow him considerably.

But she didn’t want trouble, not so soon.

She followed him until they were past Linscome, who bowed her head as they passed. She made eye contact with Chanda again—quick, just enough to make a point.

Then Linscome immediately turned her attention on the rest of the people from the Brillante. She stiffened her shoulders and straightened, and then she called out over the chatter of the thirty or so people standing around the ramp.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Orbital Station One!

The chatter stopped, and everyone who hadn’t already been staring at her turned to her.

I am Administrator Cynthia Linscome, and this is my facility. I hope to make your stay here short and pleasant. If you would like, we have a bar one deck up and aft. There’s a courtesy round waiting for anyone interested.

That seemed to get through nicely. People smiled and visibly relaxed.

We’ve already begun the screening process, and everyone should be cleared on schedule. When we’re ready to launch, we’ll send your earpiece or other registered communications device a timer showing when we begin boarding.

An engineer Chanda had spoken to before raised a hand. Why can’t we go down now?

Linscome searched for who’d spoken. Whether through her own wits or the assistance of her earpiece, she spotted him—smaller than her, scrawny, pale. We’ll be ferrying you down once the Francona Spaceport is in twilight. That’s about three hours from now. Going down any earlier would be impossible. If anyone has any other questions for me, now is the time.

That seemed to satisfy the others, who gathered up their bags and packs and followed one of the crewmen out of the hangar.

Then Linscome turned to Chanda. I’ve got it from here, Tolbert.

The big black man spun and barked out orders to a pair of lanky crew chiefs who’d been staring at the shuttle like they’d never seen one before. They jumped into action.

Chanda shivered at Linscome’s hungry glance. Would it be too much to ask why I’m not being offered a free drink like the others?

The administrator smiled—bright and pleasant. She was uncomfortably pretty. You didn’t strike me as the drinking type. We can still arrange for one. Like I said, it’s three hours before twilight.

Is it me, or was that an evasive answer? It sounded evasive.

Linscome’s smile became a little forced, a little less pretty. Follow me, please.

When she turned, Chanda went into parade rest. She was sure it would send a signal Linscome couldn’t miss: Her guest wasn’t budging.

The administrator stopped after a few steps and turned back.

Am I being detained, Administrator?

Linscome crossed her arms beneath her breasts and tapped a manicured finger against her full lips. She wasn’t smiling anymore. Detained sounds…extreme. I’d like to consider this a matter of professional caution.

Caution?

The administrator stepped closer and clasped her hands behind her back. Her eyes flicked to the scar on Chanda’s scalp, just below the hairline. I don’t think it would be too forward of me to say you stand out in a crowd, would it? What about if I said that I have a good eye for faces, and yours is one that stands out. In a good way.

Are you hitting on me, Administrator?

The smile came back. Not yet. What I’m dealing with is strictly professional. For now.

My face catching your eye is professional?

Mm-hm. And so is me saying, ‘Have we met before?’ You see, I can’t shake this feeling that we know each other somehow. She leaned in, and the delicate floral notes of her perfume became as unmistakable as the subtle cosmetic tattooing she’d had done—dark lines along the edge of her eyelashes and beneath her eyebrows, the permanent shading that gave her cheeks more detail and made her nose seem a little more pronounced.

That sounds an awful lot like you’re hitting on me. And not very cleverly.

Well, I’m not, Miss Bajaj. I have no problem going into more detail, but I’d rather do so where my crew don’t start to question why I’m not detaining someone I suspect might be a security risk. She glanced toward the hatch where the rest of the Brillante passengers had exited. We can discuss this in my security chief’s office, if you’d like?

It was Chanda’s turn to sigh. She relaxed. No.

Twinkling lit the taller woman’s eyes, and she headed for the hatch. Her legs made for longer strides that pushed Chanda to keep up, something she wasn’t used to needing to do. They turned left in the passageway and then took a stairwell up two flights. The walls were clean and had a texture to them—real…several millimeters deep—rather than the Brillante’s smooth paneling. It was the sort of subtle cosmetic detail that would cost extra and would only matter to a few people. Sort of like Linscome’s cosmetic tattooing.

The administrator apparently had a lot of autonomy. Was she in the habit of abusing it?

Coming out of the stairwell, they headed left, then followed a curve to the right. A few meters after the curve, Linscome stopped outside a sealed hatch. The display panel beside the door read: Administrator Linscome.

She opened the hatch and waved Chanda inside.

The office was bright, clean, and very personalized—diplomas, certifications, and digital frames showing images of the administrator covered most of the upper half of the walls. An unrecognizable vine crept down the front of the desk from a green, hollowed-out block of stone resting on the near corner. Dim light revealed a small room beyond an open hatch: personal quarters.

Chanda settled into a seat in front of the desk. Her heart sank when the administrator jerked her head to indicate the room beyond.

I’d rather we keep this informal for now. Linscome didn’t wait to see if there would be a protest. Instead, she wrestled free of her jacket and continued into the other room.

After focusing to calm her heart, Chanda followed, feet clumsy and heavy.

It was in fact personal quarters. The interior lit up as the other woman walked around, revealing more of a meeting area or a living room. The space was even more personalized, with moving images of beaches, shelves with more plants, and dolls of some sort.

Chanda glanced at the nearest doll and realized it was a cartoonish representation of her.

You like that? Linscome draped her jacket over a love seat and unbuttoned the cuffs on her bright white shirt. It was crisp and even tighter than her jacket.

Where’d you get it?

I made it. She waved at the other dolls sitting in nooks and on shelves throughout the room. Women. I made all of them. Built the 3D files myself from security images. Sewed the clothes, too.

The material and work were high quality. Lets you express your creative side?

And keeps my mind off the fact that we’re floating around in a tin can, orbiting a planet that wants to kill its occupants. It can be very stressful if you let it get to you. Make yourself comfortable. She opened a small cabinet, revealing a bar. You want that drink?

Actually, I don’t touch alcohol.

I do. I hope that’s not a problem. Once again, she didn’t wait for an answer. Tell me about your trip out here, Miss Bajaj.

Chanda’s fine, if I’m not being detained.

You’re not.

Chanda dropped her duffel bag next to a seat without arms and settled in. Thick-cushioned, faux-leather upholstery, cool against her skin. And wobbly. It felt right for the situation. What do you want to know? I got my Class IV license, searched the Grid for the best opportunities, and bought a ticket to Reitman.

Ice clinked against glass. Why Reitman?

I told you. Grid research. There are more opportunities—

There aren’t even twenty-five thousand people down there, Chanda. There are already five Lancers on-planet, and now nine more show up. You didn’t know that?

No. A few of the passengers on the Brillante had acted like possible Lancers. They were loners who watched everyone suspiciously, and a couple had a certain gait that said they were inviting trouble.

Nine seemed an improbably high number.

Linscome glanced at something Chanda couldn’t see: her earpiece display, no doubt. Five of you from Earth, four from Roarke colony.

Those are good places to be from.

Reitman’s not a good destination, though. Even if you sincerely believe the money is going to be good, as of now, supply exceeds demand. The administrator settled on the love seat, one hand holding a squarish crystal tumbler half-filled with a golden-brown spirit. Whisky. Her other hand unbuttoned her collar. She leaned forward slightly and swirled the ice a few centimeters in front of her face, eyes locked onto the scar on Chanda’s forearm. How’d you get that?

I got too close to a fire. Children screamed. People begged for mercy. Chanda squeezed her eyes shut.

You all right?

Bad memories. That’s all.

Your background check lists you as former military. Indian. You don’t have much of an accent.

I lived in the States until I was twelve.

Where?

Just outside Sacramento.

Oh, really? Linscome took a drink. Whereabouts? I grew up in Emeryville.

Earth was a small world, apparently.

Chanda wanted to cross her arms, but that was a defensive signal, something she didn’t want to project, especially with the way it would make her muscles look thicker than they already did. River Gardens.

Never heard of it.

Not far from the I-5 and I-80 intersection. I used to play in Discovery Park after they drained and rebuilt it.

That was a lot of work.

My father always said that hard work grants great rewards.

Linscome took another drink. She squinted and seemed about to say something, then she just let it go. What’d you do in India? Before becoming a Lancer, I mean. She pointed her tumbler at Chanda, moving it up and down, indicating her chest and arms. Security? Military? Bodyguard?

Military. Like it says in my background.

That’s right. I’ve heard about the drawdowns and all the problems that was creating. That has to be tough.

I got out ahead of them. Morale was bad.

I bet. The administrator finished her drink and twisted around to set the tumbler down on the bar, apparently absorbed in the complexity of balancing the tumbler on the bar top. Her breasts bunched up visibly as she struggled with the effort, a golden swell of flesh out the top of her shirt. The move felt calculated. She turned back around suddenly and licked her lips, as if she thought she’d caught Chanda checking out what was on display. There are some inconsistencies in your application, Chanda. Did I mention that?

You mentioned you liked my face. Before you started unbuttoning your shirt.

Linscome adjusted her collar, maybe a little self-conscious. I can like your face and still be concerned about inconsistencies. It’s my job to keep track of every last thing that goes down to or comes up from Reitman.

So now I’m a thing?

Don’t be that way. The administrator leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. You know what I meant.

I followed all the guidelines filling out my application.

I’m sure you did. She settled back against the cushions and began rolling her sleeves up. "I’m obligated to launch an investigation. I could prioritize it, or I could let it run its course at normal speeds. The only data I have on you right now is the packet that came in with the Brillante and what’s in your own personnel file. People sometimes like to fly around the colonies for a few months, trying to stay ahead of…trouble. Firing off a query with a message buoy today, the best I could hope for is… She shrugged. Twelve weeks?"

Chanda’s guts twisted. And if you let things run their course?

I have reports to get back to Earth and down to Reitman. I’ve been here almost nineteen months. I’m not even six months out from rotating, maybe taking a position at one of the old colony worlds. I’ve turned things around on this orbital, cleaned it up. I’m very sought after. It’s possible I wouldn’t even get around to filing in that time. She tugged her shirt out of her pants, revealing soft flesh beneath.

Chanda’s mouth felt dry, and her jaw trembled. She scratched her neck and hoped it seemed natural and calm. And if…if you don’t file the query before you rotate out?

The taller woman unbuttoned the bottom of her shirt. It’s the sort of thing that can get lost. Forever.

Chanda stood on shaking legs. I don’t have anything to hide, Administrator.

Linscome froze for a second, then she resumed unbuttoning her shirt. Of course you don’t. If I thought you did, you’d be in the brig.

I’m not interested in what you’re offering, either.

Once again, the administrator froze, and this time her face turned darker. I see. I thought—

I don’t do well with coercion.

Is it coercion? To have a friendly conversation about what might be seen as inconsistencies in your application, maybe to hope for something more?

It’s coercion. And the fact someone like you needed to rely on it makes no sense.

I told you, I look for distractions. I can’t do that with my crew. On a small installation like this, discipline would collapse in no time.

That’s not my problem. What you did is the sort of thing a predator would do.

Linscome pushed her shirt back into her pants. You didn’t seem threatened.

Chanda sighed. Are you going to approve me going down to Reitman?

The administrator pulled her jacket from the love seat. So long as you don’t give me justification to detain you.

Thank you. Chanda grabbed her bag and turned for the door.

I will be running that query as a priority, though.

Chanda came to a stop so quickly that she nearly stumbled. You won’t find anything. The words came out wishy-washy.

If I do, we won’t be having a discussion in my office.

Chanda stuffed a shaking hand into her pants pockets and returned to the hangar bay. She didn’t know what to make of Linscome’s little play. Maybe she sincerely thought using her position of authority was the ticket to seduction. But it was hard getting past her claim that there had been inconsistencies in the application. Chanda had been in a hurry. She’d cut some corners. Getting off Earth had been a priority.

Would that come back to haunt her? She hoped not.

GOING DOWN

The Reitman shuttles were nicer than the Brillante’s, which surprised absolutely no one. Because of the tight window everyone had to operate within, the orbital station took down two shuttles at once, the larger filled with supplies and materials, the smaller with passengers.

Chanda had more room this time around and stretched out to establish her space. Alcohol was heavy on the breath of most of the others, quickly overwhelming the smells that had been so offensive earlier. There was a detergent aroma coming off the seat cushions, and it was stronger than any other smells. It quickly had her wondering what would justify using harsh cleaners.

She couldn’t come up with anything pleasant.

In the shuttle’s bright light, everything looked washed out. Flesh, clothing, baggage, all of it drained of energy and life. People seemed desperate, anxious, beat down.

A scruffy, middle-aged man with a day’s growth of silvery whiskers on heavy jowls had taken the seat across the row from Chanda. He stared at her with empty, bloodshot eyes. His mouth hung open, and dark nostril hairs curled around the bottom of his nose. Even though she knew better, she had the sense that she could hear his thoughts.

What’re you running from? Why’re you so scared? Who are you?

Of course, those weren’t his questions, they were hers.

She had a hard time connecting with people on the best of days. His blank face was just acting like a mirror, reflecting back her realization that she’d been stupid to think the Frontier Colonies was where the young and energetic went to fulfill their dreams. All she had to do was look at the broken people around her—mouths agape, eyes glassy.

People weren’t drawn to the Frontier Colonies to fulfill their dreams. They were sucked along by the cosmic tides and deposited on the shore, like garbage from a shipwreck.

She closed her eyes and fought off a shudder.

Too much stimulation. She’d been going too long with too many things coming at her, pushed too close against other people.

She needed separation. Distance.

The shuttle lights went out, and people looked around, some confused, most curious. After a minute of chattering, things settled down again.

They were clear of the orbital station and en route to the entry point to Reitman’s thin atmosphere. People shifted in their seats and began to doze off.

Chanda glanced past the man to her left to get a look out the porthole at the world below. It was like looking around the shuttle when the lights were on: Everything had a washed-out, scorched look. Sand and rock seemed to have been blasted to the point where they couldn’t even make shadows.

The planet surface slowly rotated beneath them until the breathing all around her turned even and deep. Some of the bigger men snored. Drool ran down the cheek of the man to her left. The woman to her right whimpered and shook her head, trying to stay awake but not having much luck.

Chanda ran her hands along the inside of her jacket, tracing the lining until she found a spot where the stitching felt different.

Was anyone watching? No. No one cared.

She worked a thumbnail into the stitching and pried open a small pocket, then felt around until she found a slim pill. She pushed that out and into the palm of her hand.

Bitter. The pill would immediately be sharp on her tongue. She salivated at the thought of it.

Memories came to her: shouts, screams, gunfire, crying.

The pain and horror, like ice needles all through her gut.

Finally, she couldn’t fight off the need. She popped the pill and closed her eyes.

Although technically not illegal, the use of memory inhibitors was generally looked down upon. She used Number6, which was extremely powerful, but it had negligible side effects. Weakening the sex drive was considered the worst, but that was hardly something she cared about. Many users had reported a lack of empathy, an inability to connect with loved ones and colleagues. Once again, that wasn’t something she was particularly sensitive to or concerned about.

After a few minutes, the effects started to kick in—a tingling in the toes, a warmth spreading out from the small of her back into her belly and chest.

It was like arousal, she realized, but more as a relief.

The memories faded, taking with them her worries about Administrator Linscome’s query.

As Chanda drifted off to sleep, she told herself she had three months to make it on Reitman. From orbit, the planet seemed horrible and broken, a burned-out husk never meant to support human life.

A soothing sense radiated out from deep inside: She was home.

ARRIVAL ON REITMAN

Chanda woke to turbulence and a nose gone dry and dead to anything other than the most overpowering odor. That was the Number6. She’d slept about ninety minutes, long enough to take the edge off the drug. The guy in the seat to her left was still out, so she leaned over him to get a good look through the porthole. A metallic bitterness had settled in her mouth, so she ran her tongue over her lips to try to get rid of the taste.

They were descending toward a mountain range. It seemed higher than anything she’d ever seen before. In the last minutes of almost-light, the towering cliffs loomed darkly over jagged hills. Gold-hued dust devils came together and fell apart.

Her stomach rose into her throat as the shuttle began a sharp descent.

Twilight faded into night, and the turbulence grew worse.

People began to wake all around her, but not the two on either side. Chanda couldn’t pull her gaze away from the port and the rapidly approaching ground and spotted a plateau several klicks long and wide. The shuttle’s belly lights reflected off a pair of huge metal panels opening out from the center of the plateau, and the shuttle banked.

That was their destination.

Metal entering metal. It felt like watching a robot doctor peel away a scab, and the shuttle was a surgical probe being inserted into the wound.

She closed her mind against that imagery.

Interior lights kicked on, and a dull tone played loud enough to get through the most congested head. Even the people who’d smelled like a distillery during loading began to shake off the travel malaise. Shaking fingers rubbed at bloodshot eyes.

It gradually began to settle in on the dull and tired faces that they were arriving at their new home.

The shuttle braked abruptly, then hovered. Seconds passed, and there was a sudden drop and an even more abrupt stop. Landing gear groaned with the impact. Another tone filled the cabin, probably meant to reassure. It didn’t. Not for her, At least.

People relaxed and chatter slowly ramped up.

The ceiling displays gave a look at what the shuttle was resting on: a dull metal slab covered in a fine layer of coppery sand. Another display showed the sky above. It was dark, and after several seconds, the metal panels that had opened for the shuttles closed, blocking out the sky and sealing them off from the brutal, murderous outside world, a world that rejected invaders and destroyed them.

Powerful machinery came to life, things felt working through hull vibrations rather than through any noise. They were probably pumping in atmosphere now. She imagined huge gears and belts cranking away, straining.

The slab they were resting on moved.

And then descended, unevenly at first, then more smoothly. Gold LED lights flickered on as they passed what must have been significant points in the shaft. When she could see anything at all through the porthole, the view was distorted and unreliable. The descent ended, then they moved horizontally.

The vibrations stopped, and they came to a stop that sent everyone rocking into each other.

A third chime rang.

The shuttle speaker system squealed, then a scratchy sound shot all through the cabin.

Finally, one of the pilots’ voices replaced the scratchy sound. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Reitman Colony’s Francona Spaceport habitat. Once we’ve been given the all-clear, we’ll cycle the airlock and you’ll be free to disembark. Follow the indicators through the cargo airlock and you’ll find yourself directed to the customs office. Restricted cargo will be processed and handed over to its owner by the customs official on duty. On behalf of Reitman Colony, we hope you find yourself right at home.

Chanda was pretty sure restricted cargo was a nice way of referring to the Lancers’ weapons cases. She couldn’t imagine Reitman Customs saw a lot of other high-risk items passing through.

The ceiling displays flashed green, and the pressure doors at the rear of the shuttle cycled open. People unbuckled and struggled out of their seats. Backpacks were thrown over sagging shoulders, and travel bags were nestled against groins. They formed a line and hurried out of the shuttle as quickly as they could, stiff from travel and wobbly from alcohol.

Chanda hefted her brown duffel bag and assured herself that things would start looking up soon.

They had to.

CUSTOMS

Seconds after stepping into the hangar bay, Chanda’s nose cleared. The air was hot and dry, and a fine powder of some sort—dust or sand—seemed to hang everywhere. A sharp, painful mineral smell overwhelmed her, filling her sinuses. It felt like having a rusty scalpel blade stuck deep into her nose. She coughed, but the smell remained. People around her coughed as well, and it was apparent in all the bleary eyes that she wasn’t the only one who found the experience unpleasant. She promised herself she would rinse her mouth out, maybe run some water into her nose as soon as possible.

Rinse out the evil, as one of her uncles liked to say.

Girish. Uncle Girish.

She could recall his name and that he was into some pretty primitive guru nonsense, but that was about it.

The Number6.

Green arrows directed them to the only obvious exit, a huge pressure door meant to handle machinery and vehicles. They shuffled toward it like zombies from ancient entertainment vids, sand scraping beneath their boots, already forming into single file.

The pressure door cycled, and they passed through. The matching door at the far end of the airlock showed red, but the arrows directed them to a smaller door to the right. That door cycled open, and a wave of cool air washed over the huddled group. There was a stale, lived-in feel to the atmosphere, but it was so much better than the blast furnace air of the hangar bay.

The abrupt change played mean tricks on her sinuses. She sniffled and followed the line forward.

It was impossible to miss the differences between Francona and Orbital Station One. The walls were smooth again, and they were a dull, grimy white. The line moved toward a glass wall, which was smudged with a million handprints. A door opened, and the line threaded its way inside.

A pleasant, robotic voice coughed from a hidden speaker. Welcome to the Francona Spaceport Customs Office.

Heads gawked around, trying to locate the speaker.

We have reviewed the passenger manifest and prioritized processing based on colony standards. Your tickets should show your present order. Please review your priority and adjust your queue position accordingly.

Chanda brought her ticket up in her earpiece display. Thirty-seventh.

People fell out of line and began adjusting their position. It didn’t take long to identify Reitman’s priority: miners moved to the front, then engineers, then what appeared to be support personnel, then the entertainers.

Lancers came last.

She now knew who the other Lancers were.

They were an odd bunch, even among odd bunches. Apparently, cliques had been formed aboard the Brillante or at the bar on the orbital.

Three of the guys were almost stylish, with long gray coats, heavy boots, and black pants. They hung close together, not speaking but giving off a vibe that the rest of the colony could fuck off. There was a sense that they might have been a team before coming to Reitman. It might have been the way they looked at each other, as if they could communicate without saying anything. It was the sort of thing that came with a lot of time working together, counting on your squad mates to do their job.

Then there was their haircuts: uniformly short, emphasizing their high foreheads.

And their earpieces. They looked to be the same exact model, too, currently coupled up with some sort of high-end shades.

They were thirty-two, thirty-three, and thirty-four.

After the special team, there was the odd couple: a short, jumpy East Asian guy with glasses who could have been in his fifties, and a towering, bald black man—a bodybuilder. The East Asian man looked ready to pass out, his mouth hanging open and his eyelids drooping. The black man seemed oblivious to this or at least unconcerned. He kept leaning down to say things into the East Asian man’s ear. The words were lost, but the deep rumbling was unmistakable, as was the laughter when he said something to entertain himself. That laughter was usually preceded by a light slap to the East Asian’s chest, which caused the smaller man’s eyes to widen.

Thirty-five and thirty-six.

Behind her, three men huddled close, watching everything in front of them. Two of the men looked Middle Eastern—dark hair, olive skin, brown eyes. One of them had the look of a movie star: sharp-featured, with long hair and well-groomed mustache and beard. He brushed the hair back from his face in a practiced way that made it pretty clear he knew how handsome he was. The other had lighter and shorter hair, the faintest hint of a goatee, and rounder cheeks. Combined, he pulled off low-end model good looks. He seemed slightly less infatuated with himself.

Slightly.

Thirty-eight and thirty-nine.

Beyond them, a taller white man—more a boy, really—seemed to lose interest in the slow-moving line. He had short, light brown hair, an innocent face, and soft brown eyes. He seemed lost and confused, as if he couldn’t understand why or how he was there. Even through the Number6 haze, she felt a strange connection to him.

Forty.

As the line moved forward, she passed the time studying a map of the colony and listening to what conversations were loud enough to be meaningful. It helped to ground her and to gain a sense of what was going on. The layout of the office was pretty simple: an open door to the right that probably led to an office; a counter that separated a woman in a gray jumpsuit from the passengers being processed; and a big scanning device fed by a conveyor belt.

The scanning device was black and sleek, with stainless steel trim and a precise and sharp sound to every function.

It was the sort of machine that talked you through the process. Good morning, Enrique. I hope you’re having a pleasant day. If you could, please place your luggage and jacket on the conveyor belt. Everything within the yellow lines, if you can. I don’t want to damage your valuables. I know how annoying that is. I think you’ve got it. Thank you.

The routine changed slightly with each person it dealt with.

Morning, morning, morning! Has your day been going well so far, Graham? Excellent! Now, if you wouldn’t mind, your luggage and jacket need to go on the conveyer belt.

And so on. It wasn’t artificial intelligence, but it was clever work that seemed close enough. That was always easier and more satisfying than real AI. It felt like dealing with a human, which seemed to set people at ease, all without the fear of something that could suddenly flip out and decide to kill you.

The machine was certainly better than the woman running things.

White hair, mouth puckered like a sphincter, pale eyes glaring bitterly, wearing a jumpsuit that was as crumpled and worn as her face. She ranged from bureaucratic boredom to capricious fits of irritation and moved with robotic stiffness. If she made eye contact with the people she was dealing with, it wasn’t to compliment or welcome them. When she spoke, it was hard to tell her voice from that of the scanning device.

No. The device’s voice was warmer.

Chanda was close enough to the counter when the entertainers went through to see the old woman confiscate items.

We’ve been having some problems with drug smuggling, she said in her cold, worn-down voice. You can pick these up tomorrow if they check out.

The entertainers glared at her but left without a fuss.

The stylish Lancer team moved forward.

Chanda was able to catch their entire interaction.

The customs hag—Jelena, according to her augmented reality tag—had them pull off their coats and glasses, then she ran a handheld scanning device over them. After that, she scanned their chits and handed each of them a weapons case—stylishly polished black ceramic with gold trim.

The cases were big—capable of carrying assault weapons—and as similar as their outfits.

Jelena warned each one that his case wouldn’t open until he was outside of the Francona habitat. A safety measure. We don’t care for violence. We’re especially careful this time of year. Disgusted sniffles concluded their interaction.

There was no missing them glancing at the rest of the Lancers just before leaving.

Evaluating the competition. They must have laughed inside.

Without their coats, they weren’t so identical, at least not as she’d imagined they were. One looked at least part Polynesian—deep golden skin, relatively round face, and full cheeks; another was northern European, with a narrow face, pale eyes, and high cheekbones; the third looked like he might be from Central America—coppery skin, full lips, and dark eyes.

But they were all young, like the kid at the back of the line.

The black man passed through next. His booming laugh filled the air, but Jelena only glared at him when he attempted to engage her. She seemed to have a bit less of a problem with the East Asian man, passing him on with what might have been a smile.

Chanda stepped up to the counter and set her jacket and backpack on the conveyor belt. She tried to smile. That raised a sour frown in return.

Bajaj. The customs officer made it sound like a curse.

Yes.

She pointed to the doorway that opened onto what Chanda could now see was an office. If you could wait in there, please. This won’t take long. She waved the pretty Arab man forward and smiled pleasantly.

Chanda stepped into the office, fighting off panic and fear that really had no reason to rise up like they did. She set her bag down next to the door and looked around the office, which felt even more cramped than she had expected. There was a desk, a chair, and a cabinet. Dusty charts detailed how to spot contraband and drug addicts.

There was no connection to the local Grid until approved, so she passed the time reading up on the effects of Number6. The eyes of the other Lancers burned holes in her back.

Irritation replaced fear and panic. The others were competitors for a limited job pool, and they’d been given a head start.

The outer door closed, and Jelena filled the office doorway, leering.

Chanda’s gut tightened, and her heart raced.

The old woman stepped in and closed the door behind her.

Do you know why I asked you to wait? She opened a drawer and reached inside.

I have my suspicions. Chanda licked her tingling gums and made a point of staring at the other woman, waiting for eye contact. Number6 addiction made it hard to maintain eye contact.

Jelena held up a pair of cream-colored latex gloves. You were selected for random inspection. She looked the other woman up and down and moved close enough that the individual hairs on her upper lip and the wobbly line of lipstick on trembling slivers of dead, pink lips stood out. I’m going to need you to disrobe, please.

Chanda swallowed. For what?

Body cavity search. The leering was back in her eyes.

I don’t suppose Administrator Linscome had anything to do with this?

A smile spread across those thin, pink lips. Please disrobe, Miss Bajaj.

Chanda pulled her boots off, then her tank top and pants. She threw her arms wide. I’m not carrying anything.

You’ll need to take everything off.

There it was. Off came the undergarments. Chanda seethed inside.

Turn to face the wall, please. The customs officer moved even closer as she spoke. Her breath was hot and seemed to be heavier than before. Two circles glowed on the wall: shoulder-high. Two more glowed on the floor, shoulder-wide. Hands and feet in the circles.

The old woman shoved her claws in—hard and deep. Without lubricant.

Chanda squeezed her eyes shut but didn’t say anything. She imagined the whole thing was being filmed for Linscome, and with each probe of the old crone’s withered claws, Linscome’s voice whispered that there had been an opportunity for something far more pleasant.

The claws eventually pulled out, and the customs officer stepped back. Latex snapped from flesh, then there was the gentle thud of gloves going into a bin.

You can dress now. The smirk was unmistakable, even with her head turned away.

A soap dispenser whirred as Chanda dressed. The door didn’t open until she was pulling her pants back on, and even then she felt the old woman’s dull, pale eyes watching. She left the door open, maybe to give anyone who’d lingered behind a free look at Chanda dressing.

She didn’t think she could feel any more violated.

Exploitation. Abuse. It was at the heart of power.

Jelena was all eye contact after that, salacious and disgusting.

Chanda’s brushed pewter weapons case and duffel bag slowly passed through the scanning device.

You seem to have missed your jacket, the device said. Its indicator light glowed a pale yellow. Please place it on the conveyer belt. Between the yellow lines, ideally. That seems like a nice jacket. If it’s outside the lines, there’s a slight chance it might get caught in the belt mechanism, so be careful.

She pulled the jacket on, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at the woman.

Could you please place your jacket—

Jelena waved her hand and the scanning device’s indicator went green. She chuckled darkly. I hope you enjoy your stay on Reitman.

Chanda snatched her belongings and stormed out into the corridor beyond, fighting back tears.

Even in the Frontier Colonies, there was no escaping pettiness and cruelty.

BARRYMORE

Shaking with frustrated rage, Chanda made her way down the narrow corridor leading from the customs office. The sense of violation and powerlessness was overwhelming. Strength, training—it didn’t stop a withered, old hag from doing what she’d done. She was protected, shielded by a position of authority.

Chanda followed the corridor around maze-like bends, barely noting the walls and the strange, gray scratches around shoulder height. She was so distracted that it took a bit to realize that the gray scratches were in fact scuffs from backpacks. There were similar ones lower to the ground, where travel bags would bump against the wall. People probably tried to walk two abreast in their haste to escape the spaceport.

Or maybe they just did a lot of turning to talk to each other as they left the customs office.

Was that bitch real?

A nightmare. Definitely a nightmare.

The idea of such a conversation almost made Chanda smile.

She stopped to wonder where she was going.

She’d been granted access to the Reitman Grid now. Green arrows in her AR view told her to continue on. She could still pick out the remnant scents of some of the other Lancers. Coppery sand lay in a fine spray here and there on the floor, the trail left by the passengers.

But when she stood still, the hall was dead silent.

What’s behind the scuffed walls?

Storage, obviously. Huge open spaces. Supplies, maybe crates full of ore waiting for shipment off-world. It made sense.

And there would be confiscated items, like the entertainers’ confiscated drugs.

Chanda ran fingers over a section of wall and wondered how many things had gotten lost in a big place like that—buried and lost from memory. Reitman seemed like the perfect sort of place for things